


Your Butt Cheeks Make Excellent Pillows

by ruff_ethereal



Category: Big Hero 6 (2014)
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Shenanigans, F/F, Molestation, Non-Consensual Touching, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-13 06:44:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4511904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruff_ethereal/pseuds/ruff_ethereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As GoGo finds herself on the floor of Honey Lemon's bedroom, handcuffed, and with Honey Lemon herself using GoGo's butt cheeks as pillows, she wonders what series of events led to this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Step 1: Drink

**Author's Note:**

> For those curious about the warning, no clothes actually get removed, but there is still a lot of unsolicited touching, drunken molestation, and sexual acts, enough for me to put up the warning just in case.
> 
> Chapter titles inspired by the song "Run Dry (X Heart X Fingers)" by Patrick Stump.

_“Why do you have handcuffs?!”_ I screamed.

“So you'll stop moving so much, silly!” Honey Lemon replied with a giggle.

I tried to break the cuffs, made that chain rattle as hard as it could, had them dig into the skin of my wrists, but no dice—this pair wasn't cheap novelty plastic, these were the real deal. I looked over my shoulder and at my bound hands, hoping to high hell these were the BDSM variety with some kind of emergency release that the bound person could use to get them off.

Big mistake.

With more grace, precision, and power than any drunk person should ever have, Honey Lemon swept me off my feet. I felt her grab my waist—I think she was trying to catch me and hold me up, but all she did was sorta slow down our fall.

Thud.

I landed face-first on the nice, soft rug on Honey Lemon's bedroom floor, then I groaned through a mouthful of pink fluff. It wasn't that bad of a fall, but it still hurt. All that pain disappeared as I was suddenly _intensely_ aware of a familiar sensation that was sending my brain two _very_ different signals. I looked over my shoulder to confirm that what was happening was really happening.

Even bigger mistake.

My cheeks turned bright red. My eyes went wide. My mouth opened, my lips moved, but my voice seemed to have suddenly stopped working.

“Mmm...” Honey Lemon purred as she nuzzled her face into my ass. “Your butt cheeks make amazing pillows, you know that?”

Honey wrapped her arms firmly around my waist. The handcuffs and the fact that she was dangerously close to my _very_ needy lady bits made it impossible for me to try to knock her off, or try to get into a less mortifying position come morning.

Trapped, I resigned myself to my fate. Since I wasn't going to get any sleep tonight, I decided to think about what series of mistakes had led to this…

* * *

Taking Hiro to his first bar trip was probably the first.

It was a week or so after his big eighteenth birthday, which among other important milestones, meant he could now go with us to bars and get drunk legally.

“Guys, seriously, I'm fine!” Hiro said. “I didn't even ever try to sneak a beer the other eighteen years, I think I'll be okay sober for the rest of my life.”

He made good sense. But unfortunately, being the responsible, good influences the rest of us were (sans Baymax), we decided to take him to a bar anyway.

“C'mon, Hiro, it'll be _awesome!”_ Fred cried. “Alcohol's the creative fuel for many a great writer, so long as you remember not to overdo it!”

“Seriously, don't get so drunk you start puking all over the place; I _just_ had these seats cleaned from Thursday.” Wasabi added as he drove, briefly breaking his rule of “Eyes _always_ on the road.” to glare at me.

I just rolled my eyes; it wasn't my fault that day turned out the way it did, and to be fair, no one expects a giant strawberry cream truck breaking open in the middle of the street.

“I don't know,” Hiro replied. “I think my creative process is just fine without booze.”

“Then just drink to loosen up a little and enjoy yourself, Hiro!” Honey Lemon giggled. “Woo! Believe me, I have had some _crazy_ fun times thanks to a little liquor. I've got pictures if you want to see them! Well, the ones I didn't delete, anyway.”

I stamped down on the brief but vivid series of thoughts telling me what those photos might have looked like before they were thrown into the abyss of deleted data. _'_ _It's Honey Lemon, she's just your friend..._ _'_ I thought to myself.

“Alcohol is a historically important substance both as part of a healthy diet and as an aid to social interaction, not to mention certain varieties have scientifically proven positive effects on health.” Baymax said. “It 'wouldn't hurt' to consume a small to moderate amount of it from time to time.”

“See?” I said. “Even Baymax says it's cool.”

“I must add that ultimately, the negative effects of excessive drinking such as impaired thinking, impaired hand-eye-coordination, and the vastly lowered amounts of self-control frequently outweigh the positive benefits.” Baymax continued. “That it is worryingly easy to reach the point of 'having had too much to drink' is also cause for concern.

“Lifelong sobriety may carry a stigma in certain social groups, but the consequences of mistakes committed while inebriated tend to have much longer lasting, and much more damaging effects on emotional health, one's reputation, and one's relationships.”

“… And Baymax also says it might be better if I just stay sober.” Hiro finished. “Look, guys, seriously, I appreciate the intention, and I'm impressed you got Aunt Cass to agree to this! But can't we just go back to the Lucky Cat, and binge on the leftovers like the past four years?”

“Too late, we're already here.” I said.

Wasabi stopped the car at the front of the bar. Neon lights reflected off the windshield; people outside smoked, talked, or looked at their phones; the faint sounds of music filtered in through the door—all signs that there was no turning back now. We all got out of the car except Wasabi, getting our IDs ready as we fell in line.

Whatever his feelings on going to a bar, there was an unmistakable look of satisfaction on Hiro's face when the bouncer took his ID, studied it, then let him in with a nod.

* * *

Fred and Wasabi appointed themselves in charge of Hiro, with Baymax coming along as a contingency plan and a free accurate source of information as to whether or not you have actually had too much to drink, among other medical issues.

Honey Lemon said “See you guys later!” to us almost as soon as we entered, before she made a beeline for the bar. She took a selfie as soon as she got a seat, ordered a drink, then took another selfie of herself while she downed it.

Me? I just found a nice, quiet stool in the corner that still had a good view of the bar, sat myself down, and started looking for trouble.

Like Hiro, I was never really much for drinking, though obviously the others didn't give me as much crap about it. Blame several years of triathlon training and coaches that were very insistent I didn't put things like alcohol into my system, but more than that, blame people who couldn't hold their liquor, douchebags, and worst of all, drunken douchebags ruining my night and everyone else's. I'd been to enough bars and similar places to know that whenever you had lots of alcohol going around without much in the way of supervision or moderation, it's a question of _when_ trouble was going to happen, not _if._

This early in the night, the booze was still in bottles and glasses, and people weren't frustrated, desperate, or drunk enough to cause any serious trouble, so I decided to case the place and look for high-risk people like large groups of almost identical 20-something males.

Then I saw Honey Lemon make her way to the dance floor, and suddenly my eyes were glued onto her as my heart started beating a lot faster in my chest.

I knew Honey was a very attractive person in general—you'd have to be blind or have some seriously warped or extremely different standards not to think that—but that night she had _really_ upped the ante. Gone were the friendly canary yellows and the 60's-70's patterns, _hello_ sleeveless, silky, royal purple; gone were the almost trademark platform heels, _hello_ matching purple stilettos; and gone was the friendly, chipper, peppy ray of sunshine and happiness, _hello_ Queen of the Dance Floor.

Honey Lemon could move. Really, _really_ move. Seeing her go around all day in those platform heels (and out to combat or patrol in them every other day or so) would make you think that she had impeccable grace, boundless self-control, and the finesse of a ballet dancer, but you never really knew just how lacking that was until you gave her a crowd, space, and some music.

Those feet of hers glided across the dance floor, the stilettos almost never seeming to touch the ground unless she was specifically showing off those long, elegant legs of hers, left bare for tonight. The rest of her wasn't about to slack off, either: those hands of hers touched, trailed, and twirled about; those hips of hers shook, and swayed, hypnotizing all who looked; and when those sparkling green eyes of hers locked on yours, and those pink lips of hers turned up just so--

I wrenched my eyes from Honey Lemon, no matter how much certain parts of me complained. My cheeks were already starting to burn red, _very_ different images from reality playing in my mind. A cursory swipe of my lip revealed I was already starting to drool, too.

“Calm down, GoGo, calm down...” I mumbled to myself. “She's just your friend, she's just your friend, she's _just_ your friend...”

The mantra still didn't stop me from imagining her performing a _very_ different sort of dance, though. I distracted myself by studying the crowds around her. In short, people were interested. _Very_ interested. For now, none of them seemed to smell of trouble, so I just made sure none of them would try to cop a feel while Honey Lemon was dancing close to them, or otherwise overstep the unwritten rules.

All their eyes suddenly turned to me, but I didn't notice it—I was too busy watching Honey Lemon stride across the dance floor, the sea of people parting for her and giving her a clear path straight to me. It might have been the lights or it might have been me being painfully, _painfully_ attracted to her, but there was a glow behind her, one that made her look even more stunning than she did earlier.

“Hey GoGo~!” Honey Lemon grinned. “Want to dance?” She asked as if I did that all the time.

I quickly shook my head.

There was a brief flash of disappointment in Honey Lemon's eyes, and the curve of her smile turned down for just a moment, but she was back to her usual radiance in seconds. “Suit yourself! Offer still stands, if you want to take me on it later~” She purred before she stepped back to the bar.

Externally, it looked like I had just calmly went back to scanning the place and looking for trouble. Internally, the little people inside my head were frantically figuring out just what the hell happened while shouting “What did she mean by that?!” at the top of their lungs.

Back at the bar, Honey Lemon ordered another drink, made another selfie as she drank it, then went back to the dance floor, resuming her reign. Now that her Chosen One had rejected her offer, people suddenly got more confident and started dancing with her.

Time passed, songs changed, the bar as a whole got drunker. Out on the dance floor, an elegant, beautiful display of grace and brutality was up for show: Honey Lemon effortlessly moving that body of hers to the beat, enticing someone from the crowd to join her, before quickly showing them they didn't even come close to her skill then sending them back into the sea of people. Because of a lot of self-confidence, the alcohol in their system, or both, someone else would step up and the cycle would start anew.

A handful of songs later, Honey Lemon's reign on the dance floor remained a solo affair. She cast sympathetic smiles to the rejected ones, before striding through yet another part in the sea of people straight back towards me.

This time, she stood next to me. “God, there just aren't any good dancers in here tonight!” Honey said.

“To be fair, you're at the level of 'Pretty Fucking Amazing;' kind of a really high standard to meet.” I said flatly, purposefully keeping all my emotion from my voice.

Honey Lemon turned to me. “You happen to want to join me back there on the dance floor now?” She touched my arm and grinned, something akin to an electric shock rocketed up my spine. “It gets pretty _lonely_ just being there all by myself...” She purred.

I blushed. “I don't dance.” I mumbled.

Honey Lemon chuckled. “I didn't say you'd have to _dance,_ exactly...~”

A long, awkward silence settled between us. Honey Lemon wordlessly took her hand back and headed to the bar once more.

I tried to compose myself, go back to watching the crowds, and failed miserably. Though it did let me notice how this time, Honey Lemon skipped the selfie in favour of ordering two shots and downing them both.

There was no return to the dance floor afterwards. Instead, Honey Lemon walked straight back to me, draped her arms over my shoulders, and leaned down till I could feel her hot breath in my ear.

I turned completely red and I'm sure my heart skipped several beats. I opened my mouth to say something. Then Honey Lemon bit my earlobe, and words ceased being a thing I could do.


	2. Make Mistakes

If I had been less disciplined and had much less reserves of self control, I would have probably jumped out of my skin, and caused something very, _very_ painful, and very, _very_ unsexy to happen which would have completely killed the mood.

But instead I stayed there, frozen stiff, face burning completely red, feeling those sharp, pearly white teeth of Honey's nibble on my earlobe while her warm, wet, and _very_ affectionate tongue ran over it.

Honey Lemon let go. “There's a lot more where that came from, if you're interested~” She whispered, her hot breath still in my ear.

I made a little strangled noise. I shot straight up off my chair, hand on the wall for support. “You're drunk, I'm taking you home.” I said quickly.

Honey Lemon brightened up and smiled like a cat that just got the canary's cage open.

My cheeks kept on burning red. “Not like that!” I yelled.

“ _Sure_ it isn't...”~ Honey Lemon purred.

I grabbed Honey Lemon's arm and dragged her with me through the crowds, trying to find the others. (For her part, Honey didn't complain and went along just fine, if not entirely straight while she walked.) I found them in the center of a wooping and cheering crowd, with a line on the side filled with people getting free medical advice and “How Wasted Are You?” ratings from Baymax.

“The hell is going on here?” I asked, trying to see through the crowd and failing, thanks to my being extremely vertically challenged.

Being freakishly tall, Honey Lemon need only peer around a few people's heads and shoulders. “Looks like Hiro changed his mind about booze...” She mumbled.

I heard a loud thump and the crowd erupted into howling and applauding. Someone announced some number in the double digits and there was a whole slew of back-clapping, congratulating, and cries of disbelief.

“How did you even—did you really just—what even--!” I heard Wasabi splutter, and in between, what sounded like Fred cheering like he used to do at SFIT competitions.

In the center of this whole mess was Hiro, grinning his “I Just Won A Botfight!” grin. It wasn't hard to see what he was so proud about when you realized there were at least a dozen empty bottles of really, _legitimately_ strong “Strong” beer all around the table.

He noticed us and beamed. “Oh, hey Honey Lemon! Perfect timing! Get a photo! I'm about to break the bar record of Most Extra Strong Beers Downed In A Single Night!” Hiro laughed, sounding like a guy that was just tipsy and barely getting started on his drinking, all while he had absolutely no trouble grabbing a fresh bottle that had just been cracked open and handed to him.

Honey Lemon laughed with him and was about to pull out her own phone for documentation. I forced my way through people's sides, waists, and legs till I made it through to the front.

“'Sabi!” I yelled over the din. “Honey's drunk—real drunk. We're taking her home.”

Wasabi nodded and pulled out the keys, while the look on Hiro's face changed dramatically as he realized that would be the end of his first at a bar. With the crowd of onlookers, there was a chorus of disappointment, and the line on the side started turning into a mob as people struggled to get scanned before we shipped out.

“You know, my apartment's not far from here;” Honey Lemon said. “I could just have GoGo here walk me home and you guys can stay here...”

“Sure, fine.” I said quickly, making yet another big mistake I only realized in hindsight.

We made sure to tell each other to call in case of trouble, then I helped Honey Lemon out of the bar. Even drunk, she still had grace and skill on those stiletto heels of hers, wobbling and swaying but still keeping herself up on her own two feet…

… Up until we made it out to the less crowded, dangerous, and just plain filthy sidewalks, when Honey Lemon magically stopped being able to keep herself upright.

I heard those heels of hers start to clack much faster than they had earlier. I instinctively turned around and caught her as she fell. I realized a few seconds after that her legs were still firmly planted on the ground, very much like someone who had only _pretended_ to have tripped and fallen over as on a theater stage.

“Oh no, seems I can't walk anymore...” Honey Lemon said with appropriate mock despair. “Looks like you'll have to carry me home now...~” She grinned as she casually hooked one arm over my shoulder.

I almost dropped her right there and then. I skipped the incredulous look at Honey--”She's drunk.” I thought—and hoisted the rest of her up bridal style. I quickly noticed how _really_ short her dress was, that a strap of it had loosened and fallen on her shoulder in the meanwhile, and that Honey Lemon was giving me a look like a cat sticking its head into the cage, letting its prey cower and try to flee before it moved in for the kill.

“Piggyback?” I squeaked.

Honey Lemon looked _intensely_ disappointed for a few seconds. “Piggyback...” She grumbled.

I put her back down on her feet. Someone in less of a panic would have noticed how Honey Lemon wasn't swaying or stumbling at all as I bent down in front of her. Honey threw her arms over my shoulders and rested them on my chest, wrapped her long, bare legs around my waist, then rested her chin on my shoulder.

My face started to burn red all over again. I didn't need to see Honey Lemon's face to know she was grinning.

I tried to ignore how extremely close she was and started the long, long, “Has it always been this long?” trek back to Honey Lemon's apartment. All the while, I could feel her hot breath on my ear again, along with getting a good whiff of it, a strangely pleasant smell of strong alcohol and fruits.

“You know, we can stop and let you rest for a while, if you need it,” Honey Lemon whispered. “Lots of nice, quiet, secluded alleys around here...”

Images roared through my mind in full-force, very different from just standing in an alley trying to catch my breath and massage my sore arms. Before Honey Lemon could get out another peep, I put her down, turned around, and hoisted her over my shoulder, her face by my rear, her long legs dangling by my front.

How much skin that dress bared was still a distraction, but I kept my eyes on the sidewalk and walked straight, occasionally looking around for landmarks on the way to Honey Lemon's place. I could feel her annoyance radiating from her body, know she was scowling without even looking, but right now, I'd take "Pissed-Off" Honey Lemon to "Flirty and Horny" Honey Lemon.

The rest of the walk went by without incident, up until we came to her door and I was trying to look for where she hid her spare key. I was about to check the row of potted plants kept just outside her window when I suddenly felt a very, very, _very_ unfamiliar sensation on my ass.

I quickly looked over my other shoulder, and made yet another really big mistake.

“Wow...” Honey Lemon mumbled as she groped and squeezed my ass cheeks. “I always wondered what these'd would feel like, you know…?”

Down Honey Lemon went, back on her feet, and to the guard rail I went, back to the metal and ass well out of Honey Lemon's reach. She had on a victorious smirk on her face, I had on a look that was a cross between distress and sudden, painful horniness.

I quickly, awkwardly gestured to her door. Honey Lemon calmly pulled out her house keys from her pockets, opened her door, and stepped in. She smiled at me and gestured inside, a mischievous look in her eyes. Part of me realized this was probably a trap, a different part of me realized there was no way I was just going to leave Honey Lemon alone while she was drunk, and both agreed that I had no choice but to walk into it.

As soon as I was safely inside and not in danger of getting hit by the door, Honey Lemon slammed it shut. Like a cross between a ballerina and a tiger she calmly spun me around to face her before forcing my back to the wall. She loomed over me with a hungry, predatory grin, eyes locked onto mine, hands on either side of my head.

“Are you seriously turned on right now? Because I am~”

I was, actually. Really, really, _really_ turned on. I'd had fantasies like this, among many others, and had a healthy interest in sex, like most healthy adults, but I also had a _huge_ part of me that was reminding me of a little thing called “Consent” and how “Drunk” being with it in the same sentence almost always meant something _very_ bad and unquestionably wrong.

I somehow managed to duck down to the floor before escaping between Honey Lemon's spread legs and away from her. I had already set a good distance between us when Honey Lemon had only just realized I was gone.

“Kitchen.” I mumbled, before I turned tail and fled there.

Honey Lemon's kitchen was neat, organized, and very well-stocked. Unfortunately, she also wasn't a fan of instant anything, and her coffee was the kind that came as roasted beans in a sack, to be fed into a grinder then put into one of her many coffee making machines. I wasn't nearly calm enough to do _any_ of that so I just grabbed a glass and contented myself with water.

It was probably for the best; two drinks later, and I was feeling much calmer about the situation. Then I heard Honey Lemon noisily pull out one of the chairs on her kitchen table and I started panicking all over again.

I risked a look back. She was just sitting, arms on the table, looking a mix of disappointed and disgusted. I got her her own glass, carefully set it down well away from her, and nudged it forward.

Honey Lemon looked at me and gave me a small, wordless, and flat “Thanks.” She started slowly sipping on her water while I awkwardly took the seat across her.

“Have I just been _completely_ misinterpreting the signals you've been giving me all this time?” Honey asked as soon as I sat down.

I feigned ignorance and looked at her for “clarification.”

“Do you want to have sex with me?” Honey Lemon asked frankly. “Are you even interested in me romantically? Or am I a horny idiot who just _completely_ ruined our friendship?”

I did. I was. She wasn't.

I was also a coward, and had a strong set of moral standards, and was completely, absolutely useless with anything involving romance, intimacy, or even just social interaction, really.

“You’re drunk. You're not you, you don't know what you're doing.” I said.

Honey Lemon scowled. “I _know_ what I am drunk, GoGo: not a coward like I am sober. Do you know _why_ exactly I got so plastered tonight? It’s because I was planning to fess up, seduce you, or be too wasted to care that I’ve wussed out _again_ when I go sleep tonight.”

I awkwardly took a drink of my water.

“I love you, GoGo. Or at least, I really, really, _really_ like you. Have for _so_ long, that it’s just sad now.”

I set down the glass. There was another long, awkward silence between us. I didn't know what to say, Honey Lemon didn't want to say anything else.

“I'm going to go change...” Honey Lemon said flatly as she got up from her seat. She looked at me and smiled suggestively. “You can watch, if you'd like. I won't mind...~” She purred, before she sauntered off and to her bedroom.

I'm still not sure what exactly I was thinking back then, but I  assume  the part of my brain that wanted to keep Honey Lemon safe  and/or comfort her, and the part that wanted to  half -an-excuse to do her got jumbled  up.  I followed after Honey Lemon,  stopping at her closed bedroom door .

I  spent a brief moment debating if I should knock or just open it. I spent much longer imagining what exactly was going on behind it. Then, I decided  to knock , wait for a response, then open ed  it when none came.

Her room was  dark , which really should have tipped me off. I stepped in, felt something cold and metallic slap itself  around  my wrist with a quiet “click.” Too shocked and slow to react, Honey Lemon pulled my arms back and latched  the other cuff to my  other  hand.

And that was how I got to being face-down on Honey Lemon's bedroom floor, handcuffed, with Honey Lemon herself using my butt cheeks as pillows.

* * *

“Hey GoGo?” Honey Lemon said. “You still awake?”

I made a mix of a grunt and a pitiful whine.

“Want to have sex now? I promise I'll get the handcuffs off!”

I briefly thought of making an escape once she freed a wrist, but then I realized that'd mean I'd have to go home with a pair of handcuffs dangling from one arm, and I'd have to explain what happened to Honey come morning, or somehow get to the Nerd Lab and grab my hacksaw without raising too many uncomfortable questions.

This wasn't even getting to how many other contingency plans Honey Lemon might have had up her sleeve.

“No.” I mumbled.

Honey Lemon groaned. “Just take advantage of me already, damn it!”

I stayed silent.

“I like you, you like me, we both want to do each other, what's the problem?!”

“You're drunk...” I replied flatly.

“And what if I was totally cool with you having drunken sex with me since earlier tonight, when I was sober?”

“That was then. Right now, you're drunk.”

I could feel Honey Lemon scowl. “Fine! Be that way.” She snuggled against my butt cheeks again. “Wake me up when you change your mind...~” She purred.

Then she fell asleep, blissfully unconscious till morning.

I wasn't so lucky.


	3. Pretend You Don't Remember

Honey Lemon woke up, and everything was _pain._ Her head was throbbing, and her mouth was dry, but she was sleeping on something that was nice, soft, and warm, so she buried her face back into it.

It was when she realized it was my butt cheeks that she shot up and crawled off of me in a hurry.

I'd long passed the point of feeling any pain; now there was only numbness from when Honey Lemon had cut off parts of the blood circulation to my legs. I was still horny, but that problem would have to be addressed later when circumstances were less really, horribly, irreparably _bad._

I craned my neck back over my shoulder. It was stiff and hurt and hurt like hell.

I saw Honey Lemon sitting back on the floor, her legs firmly closed, hands covering her mouth, eyes open wide in a mixture of horror, resignation, and a _lot_ of self-disgust.

“Morning Honey...” I croaked.

Honey Lemon slowly, awkwardly stood up. “I'll go get the keys...” She mumbled before she walked off, and started rooting in an open drawer.

I just turned my head back to a relatively comfortable position, and waited.

Later, we sat across from each other on Honey's kitchen table. Normally, this'd be when she'd throw open all the colourful, handmade curtains on her windows, but today, they were all shut alongside every other kind of light-source in her apartment.

The whole place was dim, the various colours of Honey Lemon's decorations and furniture muted, the normally friendly and fun atmosphere suddenly somber and tense.

Honey Lemon stared at her untouched cup of tea, watching the steam rise.

I sat across from her, my hands resting on a pillow, the red skin of my wrists slathered thick with Honey Lemon's personal ointment for hand-cuff chafing. In front of me, also untouched, was a very strong cup of coffee.

We sat there in silence, tension so thick you could cut it with one of Honey's orange cute-predator-animals-handled knives. Several times, Honey Lemon looked up, opened her mouth to speak, but her confidence had left with the alcohol in her system.

“… Let's just forget that this whole thing ever happened, okay?” I said.

Honey Lemon looked up from her tea and nodded.

It wasn't the end of this problem, we both knew that, but it was the end of it for now.

* * *

Saturday we spent all day doing our own things, me and Honey Lemon completely avoiding any kind of communication if we could help it.

Sunday there was a Call to Action, but fortunately for San Fransokyo, neither of us would let personal problems get in the way of crime fighting and heroing. We still weren't okay enough to join in the usual joking, banter, and “witty” one-liners though, and it was easy for the others to see how unusually, strictly professional we were acting around each other.

Baymax scanning us as usual was just confirmation that yes, me and Honey Lemon had a problem.

In costume, in public, and in the middle of a bank that just had its vault blown wide open was no place to have an intervention, however, so we all shipped back to our regular, non-superhero lives and obligations, like research, our legally recognized jobs, and our lives outside of being masked crusaders.

Monday. The elephant in the room had reached critical mass—there was no more ignoring it.

There was no dramatic group intervention. We were all working professionals who were constantly teetering on the brink of highly sought after and completely unemployable thanks to our tendency to abandon work at random, inexplicable moments; aligning our schedules around superheroing and making space for potential Calls to Action was hell enough, so getting together for an intervention was going to take a miracle.

So instead, they sent diplomats. Mine was our local expert on emotional health and psychology, who it was also physically impossible to get angry at: Baymax.

“Hello, GoGo.” Baymax waved as he stepped up to my workstation at my current lab. “Do you have a few minutes to talk? I would like to discuss an issue I believe might be negatively affecting your and the others' emotional states.”

My fingers tightened around my latest set of experimental, third-generation mag-lev wheels. I set it down on the table for later disposal, walked up to Baymax, and mimed turning it down. Not unlike your phone, a speaker icon and a series of notched bars appeared on Baymax's chest, the grey squares steadily marching further to the left and replacing the white ones.

“Is this volume satisfactory?” Baymax said in a much quieter voice, one that'd make sure the other engineers, technicians, and researchers wouldn't hear what was going on.

I nodded and the trial by Marshmallow Robot Therapist began.

“I have detected a highly unusual lack of interaction between you and Honey Lemon, alongside a noticeable drop in your emotional states, and an increase in the levels of your stress hormones whenever you are in close proximity to each other.

“Did some form of incident occur between you two that has severely altered or damaged your friendship in any way? Possibly when Honey Lemon became intoxicated and you accompanied her home on Friday evening?”

Cutting straight to the point. It was how I did all my talking, and it was the last thing I wanted to hear right now. Lying was useless since Baymax was an actual lie detector, too.

“I don't want to talk about it, okay?” I said.

Baymax nodded. “I respect your choice but I must tell you that ignoring or delaying the resolution of a problem between friends is an ineffective means of treatment, and that avoidance will oftentimes only worsen it.”

I scowled and grunted.

“Thank you for the talk, GoGo.” Baymax said before he waddle out.

I picked up the wheel from earlier and threw it into the recycling bin. I missed, it sailed off deeper into the lab, and it was only by sheer luck and circumstance that I didn't hit anyone. I sighed; nothing quite like being reminded that being a wuss was making everyone's lives _so_ much worse to throw off your aim.

Elsewhere, in a different laboratory, Fred walked up to Honey Lemon's station in the old SFIT mascot costume. (“Because no one suspects a giant lizard to drop a Friendship Bomb,” he explained, and no one minded, as being a rich, eccentric billionaire philanthropist and major investor afforded him that privilege.)

I'll spare you the small talk Fred did to cushion the blast: “… Hey, speaking of Friday, did something happen that night?”

The smile on Honey Lemon's face disappeared. She grew unnervingly silent. “Later, alright?” She said, and the two of them agreed to meet up at Honey Lemon's place after work.

Honey Lemon was back to sunshine and smiles when Fred left the lab, which might be why he was so unprepared to see her slumped in a corner of her apartment, crying her eyes out while she alternated swigs from a bottle of vodka and handfuls from a box of “Emergencies Only” chocolate.

Though he was no expert on Distraught Female Friend Counseling, Fred did know when it was best to shut the hell up and let someone be. He sat down next to her and Honey Lemon wasted no time soaking his shirt with tears, pausing only to drink or shove more chocolate into her mouth.

“I think I just _completely_ ruined my friendship with GoGo...” Honey Lemon blubbered.

“So something did happen Friday night?” Fred asked.

“ _Yes!_ It was horrible, and it's all my fault!” Honey Lemon cried before broke into renewed round of sobbing.

Fred nodded and patted her on the shoulder. “I was wondering why it seemed you were constantly waiting for a _deus ex machina.”_

Honey Lemon sniffed and pulled away. “A _what?”_

“Deus ex machina—god in the machine.” Fred explained. “It's a literary device from Ancient Greece where one of the members of the pantheon comes down and magically solves everyone's problems for them allowing the play or work to end. These days, it's used to describe cheap endings and/or too convenient plot twists and devices that authors use to get out of ruts they got themselves in, or are too lazy to get out of in better ways.”

Honey Lemon nodded. “I wish something like that would happen… I don't think there's anything else that can fix this...” She took a swig of more vodka.

Fred smiled. “Aw, c'mon, it can't be that bad!”

Honey Lemon put the bottle down, let go of the chocolates in her hand, and looked Fred dead in the eyes. “I got really drunk, molested GoGo several times in a row, handcuffed her, then tripped her and slept on her butt cheeks all night because I wanted her to take advantage of me.” She said flatly.

Fred blinked. “Okay, yeah… that _is_ pretty bad...”

Honey Lemon started sobbing even harder and shoved the bottle straight back into her mouth. The rest of the conversation was just as helpful, till Fred finally realized he was way in over his head and bailed.

The awkwardness continued for the next couple of days before I'd finally had enough. Honey Lemon had been my friend for all these years, was I really going to let one night all that? … Okay, that night also revealed my interest in her was reciprocated and irreversibly changed how I think about her, but personal feelings aside, never speaking to each other for the rest of our lives was just dumb.

So I sent a text: "We need to talk."

Honey Lemon took her time replying. “Sure, but can I bring some booze with me?” Her text went.

I stopped to think. Alcohol had gotten us into this mess in the first place. But, I guess it wasn't the substance so much as it was the dosage that was the problem.

“OK. Your place or mine?”

* * *

We decided on Honey Lemon's place. What better location for a heart-to-heart than where the incident hit its peak?

That aside, my place was way, way, _way_ less comfortable than Honey Lemon's, with or without the memories of unfortunate events. I'd rather worry about the elephant in the room, not What Lurked Beneath The X, X being a disturbingly large number of places in my apartment.

The curtains were open this time, bathing the whole apartment in the golden glow of the late afternoon light. The place was clean and colourful, smelling strongly of fruits, flowers, and Honey Lemon's home cooking. There was a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses on the table within easy reach of the both of us.

The only problem was that neither of us had thought of what to say to the other under the mistaken assumption that they'd woman up first.

There were a number of false starts, one of us opening our mouths to speak, or looking like we were about to start off this much needed talk, but no words came out and we always awkwardly segued into something innocent like brushing away a stray strand of hair.

Finally Honey Lemon cracked open the bottle and knocked back two shots. She gasped, shuddering at the unmixed, undiluted burn, before she took a deep breath and womanned the hell up.

“I'm sorry!” She yelled. When I didn't say anything, the rest just came pouring out. “I'm sorry for molesting you, for handcuffing you, for using your butt cheeks as pillows! I was stupid, I was desperate, I was really, really, _really_ wrong!

“I mean, I'd totally understand if you don't want to be friends with me anymore and never want to speak to me ever again… but can you forgive me?”

The question hung in the air. The look of hopefulness on Honey Lemon's face was quickly turning into despair as the seconds passed. I could already hear the squeaks of Honey's waterworks valves. I knew I had to woman the hell up, too, and that was exactly what I did.

… Unfortunately, I also decided that I needed some liquid courage to help me out, too.

Here's some advice if you've never had alcohol of any sort before: take it slow.

Experiment with low proof drinks or dilute it with fruit juice or a soda; don't pour yourself a straight shot of something like vodka or whiskey, and more importantly don't slam it. There might be a chance that you're on of those members of the population that absolutely can _not_ hold their liquor, the person who's wasted before they get to the bottom of their first beer, the most vulnerable to getting horribly drunk and getting into _really_ bad incidents.

If there was any good out of this, it's that I set the glass back on the table, and didn't hit my head on any hard-edged surfaces as I went down. However, that still left the fact that I was smashed for the very first time in my whole life, I had absolutely no idea what to do, and that _terrified me._

What happened after that was a blur. I'm pretty sure there was a lot of weeping, panicking, and cowering, because I was drunk and the walls were _judging me_. (Don't ask me how I could tell; my drunk brain just _knew._ )

The roles were suddenly reversed and now Honey Lemon was the one taking care of me. That was a blur, too, but I distinctly remember a lot of intense feelings of warmth, a lot of cuddling, and someone whispering in my ear and helping me ignore the walls' disingenuous accusations.

When I finally sobered up, it was dark outside, my head was pounding, and I was curled up on Honey Lemon's couch, my head in her lap. Evidently, handling drunk me was its own kind of hell, because she looked dead tired and frazzled.

Though my body was telling me to go back to sleep on Honey's nice, warm soft lap, I knew there was an answer that was long overdue, so I shook Honey Lemon till she was awake and relatively sensible.

“Yes...” I groaned. “Yes, I forgive you, because I really, really, _really_ like you, too.”

Honey Lemon beamed brighter than ever before. I shut my eyes because she was making my headache worse, hid my face into my lap, and started sleeping away my first and hopefully last hangover.


	4. Drink A Little More

To clarify, I didn't get off completely scot-free because we just happened to both be in love with each other. This wasn't a rom-com that was fine ending with a really morally ambiguous “It's okay because they love each other!” deal, this was real life with real consequences and real issues that couldn't be magically solved by a series of timely coincidences and events that just happened to go the way they did.

Among the heaps of Apology Brownies, favours, and the new written rule that GoGo was never again to be allowed to ferry Drunk Me home without at least one of the others, we had a long, long, _long_ discussion one afternoon about what exactly had changed in our relationship, what we were now, and what we'd want out of each other.

The first question was obvious: “Does this make us girlfriends now?” I asked, legal pad and giant pink kitten pen on hand.

Across the kitchen the table, GoGo shrugged. “I dunno. Does it?”

“Let me rephrase the question, then: would you be willing to be my girlfriend?”

GoGo blushed. “Uh… yeah. I'd be cool with that.”

I smiled. “Great. Because I am, too.” I happily made a gigantic check on the “YES!” box for that item.

“Second: how comfortable are you with us going public with this? More specifically: should we tell the others? Do we make ourselves official to the public at large? PDA okay? And if so, what're your limits?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes, _slowly_ —you can change your Facebook relationship status for now.” GoGo paused. “… Yes, on one condition.”

I checked the appropriate boxes then looked at GoGo for her to continue.

“You can't be drunk, alright? Or high, or anything—just strictly consensual.”

I paused, not quite sure what to write down. “Wait, you mean you're okay with me groping you or molesting you in public like I did Friday night?”

GoGo looked away and hung her head. I could tell she was blushing and blushing very hard. “… Only without the 'drunk' part.”

I grinned. “Duly noted~!” I purred as I scribbled it down.

The rest of the list and the weeks after were boring stuff, or at least, they don't make good copy—you know, regular couple stuff like going out on dates, hanging out on the couch doing stupid things together, saving the other from supervillains who were all too keen to abuse our new relationship for their own means. While I do believe that every single picture on our “HoneyGoGo” album is precious, I will admit that even I'd love to watch them as more of a montage of choice moments than a full video recap of each day or date. You know, just the moments when GoGo blushes and is so _adorably_ reluctant to hold my hand in public, when she smashes my kidnappers upside the head with her shield, and the hilarious, _very_ un-GoGo-like noises and reactions she makes whenever I cop a feel or pinch her out of the blue.

About the only noteworthy event in recent memory was the company party at the laboratory I worked at. “Officially, it's to formally celebrate all the successes, awards, and projects our company has in full view of the shareholders and potential investors. _U_ _n_ officially, it's the company's way of keeping morale up, giving us an excuse to let loose, get drunk, and party all on their tab—within reason, of course.” I explained to GoGo as I handed her her invitation.

I knew her schedule, and barring anything unexpected like a Call to Action coming along that night, GoGo was free. About the only thing keeping her from going was if she said “No.”, something I was really hoping to prevent with some underhanded, selfish use of the Puppy Dog Eyes.

GoGo looked at the invitation, then up at me. “Will I have to talk to anyone?”

“Nope!”

“Are you going to introduce me to your bosses?”

“Not unless one of them specifically asks, and even then, I'll handle all the talking.”

“Can I sit in a corner and sulk all night without anyone bothering me?”

“You have my word, and I can show you HR's written memorandum!” I opened my purse.

GoGo looked down at the invitation and stewed for a while. I resumed the Puppy Dog Eyes, just in case she flicked her eyes back up at me.

GoGo finally looked up. “Fine.”

I squealed and immediately pulled her into a hug, my mouth shooting out rapid-fire “Thank you!”'s.

GoGo blushed, and cracked a small smile.

* * *

Part reflection of our company's image as environmentally-friendly and dynamic, part giving many of us who never never stopped wanting to be in the prom committee an outlet to get creative, colourful, and sparkly, the main lobby of the Florante Collective was pretty fabulous, if I do say so myself.

There was as always the giant tower of hover planters in the center of it all, but the blooms, vines, and bonsais had been pruned, watered, and sprayed with just a _little_ bit of 100% natural formulas to give them that extra healthy and vibrant look for tonight. The usually wide-open floor had been filled with a lot more tables and chairs, a mix of formal “table cloth and high-backed chairs” deals; hand-carved standing tables with a mix of floral, tribal, and shamanistic designs as our contracted and in-house crafters saw fit; to our usual “bean bags, cushions, and colourful rugs.” (The latter we kept excusing as places for children to hang out on, even if we rarely had kids over.) The buffet and refreshment tables was the only place we hadn't reigned in our usual creativity; instead of a couple of long tables with cloths thrown over, steel serving trays, and the odd elaborate display, we went with something closer to a mix between “remote tropical island tribe's feast” and “scientists with access to planters regular and hovering, spare hydroponics and piping, and a lot of trees and plants from the greenhouse run amok.”

We arrived early along with the rest of the team, about an hour before the event proper. Though my company always tended to be relaxed, fun, and friendly, we'd all eventually have to be seated for an hour or two to witness the usual round of speeches, reports, and reassurances to our investors in subtle, politically-correct ways that we were mature, responsible adults who weren't using all their money to goof off daily and do all manner of pet-projects, we swear. (Well, most of the time, anyway.)

After about five-ten minutes of getting their bearings, the limits of how much partying they could do, and a feel for the atmosphere (along with which investors and faces to avoid as much as possible), we were off!

Wasabi went to our local group of foodies and urban agriculture specialists/enthusiasts hanging out by the “Pick Your Own Salad” bar; they discussed how to best to grow their own food in a place like San Fransokyo, and exchanged recipes, along with sharing stories about their creations and their experiences in gardening/farming. (I'm pretty sure they diverged at the point where barefoot, barehanded, and occasionally scantily dressed gardening and “enjoying nature” came into the subject, though.)

Baymax was quickly passed around our R&D, HR, and managers, who were personally asking him if his technology could be replicated and a copy of him made for us. Part of this was that having Baymax around would be a pretty neat and effective solution to getting people to comply with first-aid and safety protocols, along with being very good for emergencies, and a _much_ larger part of it was that we just wanted our own marshmallow robot nurse/therapist, too.

Hiro quickly found his people with the division we affectionately nicknamed the “Cliff Jumpers.” After comparing stories, achievements, and exchanging goads and dares, they all went about subtly getting completely plastered one drink at a time, trying to see who could down the most booze before someone outside of the group became concerned that they had had too much.

 Fred tagged along with three people from HR who were going about in the “Iggy the Iguana” costume, two manning the lizard currently dressed up in a top hat, a fine suit, and stiletto heels, with the third explaining the get-up while handing out fliers and pamphlets about their movement for eradicating outdated gender norms on fashion and clothing. He was a big help to their cause and getting people to listen, mostly because of his credibility that only comes from having much, much, _much_ more money than other people, especially who you're currently talking to.

As for me and GoGo? We headed to the refreshment table/bar by the exhibition area/dance floor. It was temporarily clear so we could get a little fun in before the event started, and people were already taking advantage of it. It reminded me a little of that fateful bar trip weeks earlier, and just like it, I was going to get a little liquour in my system first, but unlike it, I was only going to limit myself to just one.

“Cheers, GoGo!” I said as I raised my glass up to GoGo and pulled out my phone with my other hand.

“Cheers.” GoGo replied flatly, raising her empty hand in the air.

I frowned. “No drink?”

GoGo shot me a look and gestured to the clearly alcoholic offerings on display.

“We've got punch, 100% natural, 0% alcohol content.” The bartender offered.

“I don't do punch.” GoGo replied. “It always ends up spiked, one way or the other.”

“Seriously, GoGo?” I said. “Look, I'll admit we're not poster boys or girls or non-binaries for maturity here, but we're all responsible adults! I don't think anyone's going to risk their careers for a single prank.”

“I've been watching that punch bowl closely since before prep time this afternoon, ladies;” the bartender continued. “Not a single bit of booze has come near it.”

“Still not doing it.”

I put my phone down and touched GoGo on the shoulder. “C'mon, GoGo? Just for me?” Again I made with the Puppy Dog Eyes.

GoGo resisted for a few moments, before she finally gave in and sighed. “Fine. But just this once.”

The bartender poured GoGo a shot glass of punch, GoGo mechanically raised it up, I beamed at her and picked up my phone. We toasted properly this time, downed our drinks, and I got our first drink selfie as a couple.

My smile quickly disappeared as I saw GoGo suddenly looking _extremely_ freaked out.

“… Haven't been watching close enough, it seems...” The bartender mumbled.

GoGo started frantically looking around the area until her eyes finally settled on me, wide open, terrified, and helpless. Asking “Are you okay?” was pointless so I skipped straight to “How are feeling?”

“I'm scared, everything's too loud, and I think the plant-animal people hiding in the decorations want to eat me. _Help me.”_ GoGo whispered _._

I frowned and pulled her in close. Almost immediately GoGo wrapped her arms around my waist before she buried her face into my stomach. It made it hard to move, to say the least, but it calmed her down some. I made a note to notify security and HR later about the spiked punch, then I tried to find Wasabi.

Fortunately, he was still in the same place as earlier. He took one look at us and immediately handed over the keys to his car. I silently thanked him and let him know I owed him a huge favour, before shuffling out of the building with GoGo still clutched to me like a little kid. There was only ever one thing that could calm GoGo down when she got drunk, and it'd be impossible inside the party with all the noise, the people, and the lack of closed-off, private space.

We managed to get to Wasabi's car without much incident. I opened the back door, and in an instant, GoGo let go of me and dove inside. She ducked well out of view from the windows, avoiding the lights pouring in from outside as curled up into a little terrified ball of whimpering and tears.

I resisted the urge to take a photo of her; it was a terrible sight to see, but it was also adorable and hilarious. Instead, I slipped in with her, shut the door, and patted my lap.

GoGo scurried over to it in seconds. Nothing mattered but burying her face into my lap and hiding away from anything and everything.

I chuckled softly and made myself comfortable. “It's okay, GoGo, it's okay. I'm here...~” I cooed as I stroked her hair.

GoGo whimpered again, a little less panicked this time.

Everyone else told me I'd missed out on a great party, but I didn't mind; as much as taking care of a drunk GoGo is stressful, frantic, and worrying, it was also pretty fun in its own way.


End file.
